


Any Man’s Bride

by RosieofCorona



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, F/M, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, tywin x joanna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 19:44:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16540961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieofCorona/pseuds/RosieofCorona
Summary: Joanna is Tywin’s. She will always be Tywin’s. He will make certain of that.





	Any Man’s Bride

Joanna’s fingers are wandering lazily down the pathways of his skin, grazing every now and then against the golden curls upon his chest. She traces fine lines along his collarbone, over the empty hollow of his throat where his heavy chain of office usually rests. In the corner of her eye she can see it lying on the table at his bedside, set aside but never forgotten, silver reflected on gold as it catches starlight from the window.

Beside her, Tywin is still. His eyes are closed, though he does not sleep; she can always tell by his breathing whether he is still awake or not. Perhaps it is the moonlight that softens his sharp features into something near-peaceful, or perhaps it is simply the comfort of Joanna’s presence that makes the lion put away his teeth. Either way, it seems a shame to trouble him in this state, when he has finally set down the burdens of the day. But she has held back the coming storm long enough. There will come no better time.

“Tywin?”

He only hums in reply, a soft and weary sound, and waits for her to speak again.

Suddenly, she does not know how to begin. It makes no matter that she has rehearsed this conversation many times over the past few days, rolled the words over and over on her tongue until they are worn smooth as river rocks. But Joanna knows their impact well enough. Even polished stones bruise when thrown.

“A raven came from the Rock.” She exhales the words in one long breath, keeping certain that her voice does not waver. He will not be pleased to hear the rest.

“From Stafford?”

“From your father.”

Tywin opens his eyes, his brow furrowed in suspicion. It is rare enough that Tytos writes to his eldest son and heir, much less to any of his other children—and never, never to Joanna. Shifting, Tywin sits up to support his weight on his elbows, twists to face her. “And?”

“He hopes I understand,” she continues cautiously, reciting the words as clearly as if she were reading them on the page, “That in accordance with my late father’s wishes, I am to be married by year’s end.”

Tywin’s stare is one of genuine disbelief, hard and unblinking, as though he is waiting for her to explain herself, as though it has never crossed his mind that this day might come, as though it is utterly incomprehensible that she should ever become any other man’s bride. Several long moments pass before he decides it is not merely another of Joanna’s attempts to vex him. “To whom?”

At first she makes no answer. It feels wrong to speak of marrying anyone else when she is still naked and warm in his bed, when she wants nothing more than to pull him close to her until he is tangled in her arms and her legs and her hair. Her hesitation hangs heavy in the space between them, and only makes him more impatient.

“To _whom_ , Joanna?”

This time she answers too quickly. “Lewyn Martell.”

The silence that follows seems to stretch on and on, as boundless as the sea. Tywin runs his tongue over his bottom lip in silent agitation, gives a curt nod. Then he rises from the bed, crosses to the far window as if he will see things more clearly by the stars. On the surface it seems a suitable match, seems that Lord Tytos could have done far worse. Lewyn Martell is young and strong and handsome, the golden glory of Sunspear, considerable with a blade. The son of a great house and already a knight at his age. A fine suitor for any woman, it would appear. But Tywin knows better.

The Prince of Dorne, they call him, yet he is no true prince at all. The Dornishmen are fond of their titles, false as they may be, and fond of their traditions—or vices, as Tywin sees it, whoring not least among them. Certainly Lewyn Martell is fond of that, too. A typical vile behavior among Dornishmen, who fuck and fight like wild dogs, always filling their bitches’ bellies with half-bred pups. It means nothing to them if the woman is highborn or low; Dorne treats them all the same.

Joanna does not belong in that foreign city with their foreign customs, is not made to share her bed with whores and heathens. She is proud and noble and beautiful, and a Lannister overmore. Above all, she is Tywin’s—she has always been Tywin’s. That alone is enough to deem any other match ill-made. Finally, he draws a long breath. “Have you accepted?”

Though relieves her to hear him speak, Joanna wishes she could change the subject to anything else. “Not yet.”

“Yet?” He turns his head toward the word, his profile cutting a sharp silhouette against the night sky. “You plan to?” It is hardly a question the way he asks it, more an accusation.

She squares her shoulders for the fight. There is no sense in lying now. “Yes.”

The way Tywin looks at her then makes the heat rise in her cheeks. His eyes flicker with a fury that crackles like a forest fire, uncontrolled and spreading. “So you want this.”

“You know very well I don’t. Don’t be absurd.”

“Then refuse.”

“I cannot.”

His patience is stretched taut as a drumhead, and every word she speaks threatens to strike a thunderous blow. “Very well. Then I require no further use of you.”

“ _Use_ of me?” Joanna’s temper sparks, and she struggles to smother it before it catches flame. “Take care how you speak to me, ser. I am not your whore.”

“No. But you mean to be Lewyn Martell’s.”

For a moment Joanna is dumbstruck, as if Tywin has just slapped her across the face. By now he is across the room, pulling on tunic and doublet and breeches even though it is the middle of the night. She slips into her shift and follows close behind, unwilling to let him have the last word, to let him think he has won.

“Have you lost your mind?” Joanna asks, incredulous, when she finds her voice again. “Do you know how it will look if I defy your father? Do you think it will inspire confidence in his allies or fear in his enemies if he cannot even command his own house, his own niece?”

Tywin scoffs and turns to walk away, but Joanna is not so easily dismissed. She overtakes his long strides and spins around to face him again. “Would you have me deny him this alliance, and Dorne as well? You know as well as I do the Martells will not bear such a slight.” _They’re near as proud as you_ , she wants to say, _and twice as stubborn_ , but she thinks better of it.

And he knows. All the reason in him says Joanna has the truth of the matter, but he cannot bring himself to admit that, not yet, not aloud. But when she reaches out to touch him, this time he does not recoil. This time he does not turn away.

“Tywin,” she urges, taking his face in her hands, her eyes wide and pleading and honest. “You must understand. It is not for love of Lewyn Martell that I would accept this offer. House Lannister cannot lose what respect you have only just won back.”

Tywin waits. And waits. And waits. At last he takes Joanna’s hands in his, sets them down at her sides. “Fine,” he says, in a tone so impassive it makes her stomach drop. Tywin has never been one for surrender—especially not where Joanna is concerned—but now it seems he would rather wave a white flag upon this hill than fight with her anymore. Briefly she considers taking it all back and assuring him that of course, _of course_ she would never wed another, that she would let houses and castles and kingdoms fall if it meant he would forgive her. But in the end she says nothing, leaving Tywin to break the silence and her heart with it.

“Leave me. I have work to do.”

***

In the weeks that follow, Joanna takes great care to avoid her cousin. She does not seek him out, does not look at him or speak to him or draw attention to herself on the rare occasions when he passes her by. It becomes less difficult after the first few days, though if she is honest with herself, that is only because Tywin is also avoiding her.

It is a full moon’s turn and a half before she gets a good look at him again, and all the while the city fills with visitors. They trickle in slowly at first, a few caravans at a time, but then come faster and thicker, in droves and hordes and masses.

Most of them are copper-skinned and raven-haired and beautiful, dressed in the sleekest Dornish silks. By month’s end, Joanna imagines that there must be more of Prince Lewyn’s kin in King’s Landing than there are left in Dorne, and small wonder. They have come to celebrate with him, to honor him in the most important moment of his young life.

On the morning of the ceremony, Joanna’s nerves are tangled as a sailor’s hitch, tight and heavy, hard to unravel. It does not help that the Great Hall is overwhelmed with spectators, lords and ladies, merchants, princes, singers, knights. As the vows are spoken, Joanna finds herself praying for the whole thing to be over, for the High Septon to cease his dreadful intonations, for the crowd to disperse, for a chance to be alone.

And then she sees him. Ahead of her on the dais stands King Aerys’ faithful right hand—Lord Tywin, all in black, a stark, defiant contrast to the knight that kneels before him in gleaming white plate. It is Tywin himself who descends the stairs to present the white cloak of the Kingsguard to Lewyn Martell, who smiles and bows as if there is purely honor in the gesture, as if he has not just been sentenced to a life of loneliness and servitude. But then, he does not know what Joanna knows.

Lewyn does not know the dread that filled her, body and soul, as she wrote and burned and rewrote the letter that would bind her to a man she did not love, in a land she did not know.

He does not know the relief she felt the day he took her by the arm and led her through Rhaella’s gardens, full of apologies for why he could not marry her after all. “An appointment from the king himself,” he’d said, his voice dream-laden, consumed with thoughts of glory. “You understand, I hope, why I could not refuse.” Of course she understood, she told him, such an honor must be acknowledged and accepted with a grateful heart, and he’d smiled and patted her hand sympathetically. Joanna had pretended to be sad.

And he does not know of the lion’s wrath that night, when Tywin learned that his beloved would be stolen from him. The wrath that convinced Aerys Targaryen that the young prince was the most worthy, the most able, the most skilled knight in all the Seven Kingdoms to protect him, should such treachery ever come to pass. The wrath that, smiling, robbed Sunspear of her darling son, her only male heir. The wrath that doomed Prince Lewyn.

He will not know how Tywin kisses her tonight, harder and hungrier than ever before. But Joanna knows.

As Tywin turns to climb the stairs once more, their eyes catch and hold for one small moment, each recognizing the familiar, knowing glimmer that so often accompanies a secret between lovers. And Tywin Lannister smiles.


End file.
